


Out of the Sinking

by coffeeandcas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1910s, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Disasters, Drowning, F/M, Fluff, Historical, M/M, Minor Character Death, POV Alternating, POV Dean Winchester, POV Sam Winchester, RMS Titanic, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:54:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24909526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeandcas/pseuds/coffeeandcas
Summary: Sam and Dean Winchester lived a simple life, working simple jobs and enjoying simple comforts. Until one day, they open a letter from an estranged relative that changes everything.A year later, they’re returning to America on RMSTitanic, the jewel of White Star Line, and their lives are a world away from the two small town boys who grew up in Kansas. Evenings of fine dining, mornings taking a stroll along the promenade deck, afternoons enjoying high tea. Sam is in his element, happily engaged to a beautiful heiress and looking forward to an increasingly bright future.Dean just wants to go home, and feels more and more suffocated as each day passes. He’s not cut out for this world and he misses the simplicity of his old life on the road. His life is a prison. He feels like a man en route to the gallows.Can a chance meeting with a handsome third-class passenger be the release he’s looking for? And what happens on that fateful night when tragedy takes hold of the ship?
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Ruby/Sam Winchester
Comments: 73
Kudos: 62
Collections: Different Years





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who's back with a brand new fic? This one is a WIP, updated once a fortnight. 
> 
> Yes, you read that right: a Titanic AU with no main character death! I couldn't do it to myself, to you, or to the boys. You may still need a box of tissues though...
> 
> I like to consider myself something of a Titanic historian, having become pretty obsessed with the ship and the disaster since I was about 10 years old (wow, I feel old). So it's going to be as historically accurate as possible but please feel free to pick up on any typos, inaccuracies, etc and let me know! 
> 
> Now, our journey begins...

**_Extract from journal found in Collapsible C on April 15th (author unknown):_ **

_and S is excited, course he is. Happy as a pig in a muck field. He’s still got R the Demonic hanging offa his arm all day long (don’t tell her that’s what I call her or my life won’t be worth living) but still manages to smile, hell if I know how.Think I’d be swinging from the balcony railings if I wound up stuck with her. Wonder what J things of the whole shebang._

_As for me? I want to be back in Kansas and put this whole thing behind us. Don’t even know how I ended up here in the first place. I didn’t know S had bought our tickets until_

*

**_April 9th, 1912, 8:45am_ **

“Mr Winchester? This way please, sir.”

A man with the shiniest shoes Sam has ever seen greets then both as they step from the motor car onto the busy, bustling Southampton street. They’re still some way from the docks themselves, but Sam had asked for them to get out early so he could take a walk in the fresh air and absorb the scenery and the people around them.

They’ve barely spent two days in England, and he wishes for more time. He’s been tempted to delay their journey home, to sell the tickets and buy them onto the next crossing, but the lure of the largest and most luxurious cruise liner the world has ever seen is too much. That and the fact that they’re tipped to cross the Atlantic in record time, and he knows he has to be on board. What a story to tell back home! They have plenty of tales to tell their friends and family already, friends and family who are no doubt already intrigued after they hot-tailed it off to Europe at a moment’s notice, but this will be something else.

“My apologies,” he says as someone walks into him, a man with a flat cap and an Irish lilt to his voice as he throws a token ‘sorry’ back over his shoulder, running in the same direction as Sam himself is heading. He’s flanked by another man with messy dark hair, clutching a knapsack in one hand and two scrunched up pieces of paper that look like they could be tickets in the other. Sam feels a leap of excitement as he takes in his surroundings properly for the first time.

Men, women and children are flocking down the streets towards the dock, laughing and chattering and pointing in the early morning sun. There’s a chill in the air, especially this close to the sea, and Sam tugs his coat a little tighter around himself to ward it off. They’re running a little later than Sam would have liked, but still in good time for the noon departure. He wants at least an hour to settle into his cabin before they venture out onto the deck to wave as the ship sets sail on her maiden voyage. He’s arranged for Jessica to have a cabin directly opposite from his, so he can be on hand immediately if she needs anything at all. She should already be on board, having set off with her mother and aunt early this morning and aiming to be one of the first to board the ship. Her mother, a formidable woman with curly blonde hair and a barking voice, would no doubt have been first in line if she’d got her way.

Ruby... Ruby is a different matter. Sam can’t help but think that he would rather like it if she missed the boat entirely. It would make things simpler, that's for sure. But equally, there's a thrill in his chest at the thought of seeing her.

Behind him somewhere, his luggage is being loaded onto a trolley and will somehow miraculously arrive in their cabin before he does. He slows his pace to a stroll, content to allow the staff a few extra minutes to get his room arranged to his liking. This is all so new to him: staff. Luggage. England. First Class.

Wealth.

He’s adjusting to it all okay, he thinks. Better than he thought he would. It had taken a while to accept, but now he’s starting to feel at home in this world. Meeting Jessica has helped, certainly. And he can’t help it: he quite likes being waited on. You know, on occasion. Having someone to get him a drink when he fancies one, or clear the table for him after dinner, or make up his bed for him. Make sure the fires are lit and cleaned out the following morning. Cleaning. Tidying. All the things he didn’t realise he hated doing until he no longer had to do them. Of course, in what he’s come to think of as his ‘old life’ his home was a quarter of the size of his current one, so cleaning and tidying it didn’t take the mammoth effort that it does now. He didn’t need staff back then. Now he wonders how he would cope without them.

It hadn’t taken him long to buy a property, but the day he received the keys and threw open the door, the sound of his own footsteps had echoed on the hardwood floors and he had been hit with a pang or inexplicable loneliness. He’d always lived with his brother and father, before John passed away and... well, his brother had dealt with the passing of his father in his own way, leaving Sam to hold down the fort as much as he could. Their relationship was close, had always been close, but in the later years Sam could feel the strain like an invisible wire between them, crackling and tugging, and in spite of all his patience and good intentions, he had begun to resent his brother.

Then, one idle Wednesday when neither of them were expecting anything out of the ordinary, a letter arrived.

Samuel Campbell had been the grandfather they never knew existed. Not until that morning when Dean has crashed through the front door of Sam’s little grocery shop, waving a letter and speaking so loudly and so quickly that it was impossible to determine what he was actually saying. Eventually, when Sam has dragged him behind the counter and into the little store cupboard barely big enough to fit the two fully-grown men, Dean had managed to verbalise the news. Their grandfather had died, and for some inexplicable reason had bequeathed everything he owned to his two grandsons. They’d never met, and Sam had never heard his name before. When he queried if Dean has, he was met with some incoherent babble that confirmed his suspicions that Dean had been at Ellen and Jo’s bar before heading home for lunch and finding the letter in their mail box. The smell of alcohol on his breath combined with the occasional slur of his words was now so familiar that Sam barely noticed it. And, in his own building excitement, he ignored it in favour of grasping the letter to read it start to finish with his own eyes - three times.

Dean has been beside himself at the news of such an astronomical inheritance. He had spent the entire journey to their grandfather’s attorney chattering excitedly about what he would spend his money on, and the house he would build. For a few weeks, maybe even months, he had been elated and had enjoyed life to the full, with more money than he could spend on beer, wine, women and fine food. Considering they’d spent a large portion of their childhood in poverty, living hand to mouth and never certain where their next meals were coming from, Sam couldn’t blame him. They began moving in different social circles. Dean had a house built a few miles outside of the small town they grew up in while Sam bought a property on one of the main streets. They hired maids and staff. Dean threw lavish parties, bought a ranch upstate, invested in racehorses and the stock market. Sam, more cautious with his newfound wealth, put a lot into savings accounts and bought assets. Dean was having more fun, guaranteed, while Sam was planning for the long term.

But over time, that fun grew stale, the excitement seemed to erode somehow and the light in Dean’s eyes began to go out. He would still have friends over for dinner parties but he was listless, only partaking in light conversation while their new friends drank their fill of his wine and ate his food. It soon became apparent that high society didn’t suit Dean, that it was fun for a while, but that he missed the simplicity of his former existence and the pressure and expectations that their wealth now put on him was crushing his spirit.

Sam had hoped that a trip to Europe would lighten Dean’s mood. See a bit of the world, drink wine in Paris, visit the Moulin Rouge for a night of fun and debauchment. Dean had certainly seemed to enjoy it - he had woken up the following morning in just his shirt and bow tie, a handsome Middle Eastern young man on one side of him and a young woman with tumbling blonde curls on the other side. But even that hadn’t seemed to bring any light back to his eyes. He was listless, dismissing endless love affairs as mindless fun, and drinking more wine in a single evening than Sam could consume in a week. For a few days in Prague, Dean vanishes without a trace. When he turned up, he had bruised knuckles and a split lip and a grim set to his jaw, and barely spoke a word for days. His breath smelled of alcohol and he slept late every morning. Sam was concerned, of course. But he had his own problems to deal with, in the form of one Jessica Moore, and one Ruby Cortes, both vying for his attention and affection, and both presenting entirely different opportunities. Sam was preoccupied, but couldn’t deny he was enjoying the attention. And as a result, Dean was slipping from his radar.

They’re nearing the port now, the sound of excitement and the smell of the ocean saturating the air. A shiny motor car trundles past them and children push past each other, laughing, then they round a corner and...

Sam’s breath catches in his chest and he lurches to a stop as he sees the ship.

She’s magnificent. A true nautical masterpiece, stretching on and on before them, her stern gleaming in the sunlight. Sam notes he’s not the only one to have ground to a halt in awe - everyone around them is looking skyward and exclaiming in delight and admiration. Car horns blare, horses whinney, and a laugh escapes Sam’s lips at the sheer joy of what lies ahead. The journey he will remember for the rest of his life, a gift and a privilege, and he can’t wait to board. All around him, the world is alive with excitement.

A white picket fence divides the passengers from the onlookers, people waving each other off, some waving back animatedly while other lift their chins and walk with an air of superiority, as though _Titanic_ has been created especially for them. A woman with a large Afghan hound passes them, flanked by two porters. A barber is offering half-price cuts for men, along with a hot shave to help them look their best for the maiden voyage. Above them, a black motor car is being winched up and swung across onto the deck. An enormous warehouse sits squarely at the other end of the dock, the words _White Star Line_ painted proudly across the top. Porters move back and forth, directing other staff as burly men in vests and braces haul luggage carts to and fro. 

The air is alive with voices and laughter, with the horns of cars and the lapping of water against the freshly-painted ship. White metal gangways link _Titanic_ to the dock, and Sam swallows hard as he sees the First Class passengers boarding, knowing that within minutes he will be following in their wake. The sun streams down upon them all, as though the Lord himself is blessing this maiden voyage. A crewman shouts, “This way! This way please, gentlemen! Come with me!” A young girl in a plain dress points up at the funnels with stars in her eyes, her whole face lit up with excitement as she holds her mother’s hand. Sam finds himself herded in the direction of other First Class passengers and takes it all in, as much as he can. The men wear bowler hats, flat caps, the women in beautifully tailored suits or simple but elegant dresses, perfect for the morning ahead.

The word _Titanic_ gleams down at them proudly and Sam’s heart hammers with excitement.

They pass a family with what could be classed as an obscene amount of luggage needing three cars to transport it, the man in a sharp black suit and a young woman with red curls tucked neatly beneath a wide-brimmed hat.

“It doesn’t look any bigger than the _Mauretania_ ,” Sam hears her say, and looks back at the ship himself for clarification. In his opinion, it certainly does. He had never sailed on the RMS _Mauretania_ himself, but had seen her when she docked in New York City once when he had spent the weekend there with Jessica. He’d been impressed then at her size, hundreds of feet long with four huge funnels stretching up into the crisp blue skies. People at the railings way above them, waving animatedly and shouting to their friends and families who remained on land, seeing them off as the ship set sail.

Now, _Titanic_ seems to dwarf the ship Sam had once been in such awe of. Freshly painted, shining in the morning light, the funnels gleaming as the sun catches them, she stands proudly above them all and Sam feels a low thrill of excitement at what lies before them. Being on the maiden voyage of the grandest, most luxurious ship in the world is something he never would have imagined in his wildest dreams, let alone holding a First Class ticket.

“Dean?” He turns to look over his shoulder, eyes scanning the crowd as he searches for his brother. “Dean? Do you see this?”

“The enormous ship taking up my entire field of vision? Yes, Sammy, I can see it.”

He starts as Dean appears to materialise from nowhere at his side, looking smart in his morning suit but his collar unfastened, making him look roguish and jaunty. His tie is notably absent. His hair is on end from having nervous fingers dragged through it time and time again. From the prim looks he’s receiving from the other passengers as they walk past him, they disapprove of his appearance and probably think he looks terribly dishevelled.Sam hides a smirk by coughing into the back of his hand. The idea of Dean spending the next few days in the company of the world’s finest is mildly entertaining. There will be fireworks at some point, he’s sure.

“You’re in the Parlour Suite,” a steward tells Sam’s man, holding out a slip of paper to him. Jack, young and eager to learn and desperate to fit in with his new employers, stands straight-backed and takes the paper with a keen smile. “Rooms B 40, 42, 44, and 46. Is everyone in your party present?”

“Yes, I think so.” Jack stands on tiptoe, craning his neck to see. “The Winchester brothers are here, Jessica is already on board... oh.” He stops short, lips suddenly setting into a straight, prim line. “Mr Winchester, sir? Four rooms? Is she...”

“Hmm?” Sam has barely been listening, entirely distracted by the hubbub of noise and movement around him. Now, as a flash of dark hair cuts across his vision, followed by a waft of expensive fragrance, he catches on to Jack’s words. “Oh. Ruby, wonderful to see you again. So glad you could join us.”

“I wasn’t aware...” Jack starts, but Sam hushes him with a casual wave of his hand.

“Ruby was returning to New York around the same time as us, so it made sense for her to join us. I assume that won’t be a problem?” He raises his eyebrows at Dean, Jack, and the steward - who quickly averts his eyes, deeming this to certainly be none of his business. When he receives no response, beyond an arched eyebrow from his brother, Sam nods. “Good. Shall we?”

In a gesture that he hopes will seem gallant to onlookers, he offers his arm to Ruby who takes it with a saccharine smile, lowering her lashes in a faux display of coyness. She’s in a smartly tailored black suit, blouse buttoned up to the throat and adorned with a jewelled clasp. There’s a fascinator nestled in her dark hair which offers up a thin layer of black lace which covers one side of her face down to her jewel-red lips. Her dark hair is in ringlets and she’s wearing a very familiar scent. Jack averts his eyes. Behind them, Dean clears his throat. Sam lifts his chin in confident defiance of their judgements, staring up at the ship bound for New York, taking them back to the life he’s rapidly growing to love. He’s found his place in the world, he’s sure of it. He’s found the people he belongs with, and nothing is ever going to take that away.

He gestures to the steward to lead the way, feeling Ruby’s fingers squeeze his forearm as she moves in close to his side.

“Let’s board.” He smiles at her as the sun moves out from behind a cloud, bathing the excited crowd in glorious warmth. “This is going to be the journey of a lifetime. I’m sure of it.”


	2. Chapter 2

**April 9th, 1912, 6:45pm**

Later, in the early evening at the base of the Grand Staircase, while stewards and guests mill around, they’re introduced to some of the other passengers they will be sharing their journey with. 

Margaret Brown, an indomitable woman from Missouri who boarded at Cherbourg and insists they call her Molly, looks Sam up and down before giving him a large smile - then declares that he reminds her of her nephew back home. John Jacob Astor, a man nearing his twilight years who Sam knows by reputation of course, shakes his hand in a distracted sort of fashion - on his arm is a very pretty young woman in the type of delicate condition ladies can find themselves in, and Sam has to stop the surprise from showing on his face. Where he comes from, men are faithful to their wives. Strong women with kind hearts who would just as soon grab a shotgun as give you a foot rub at the end of a long day. He thinks of Ellen, a woman he’s called Aunt since he was a child, who runs one of the bars back home in small-town Lawrence, who has been known to evict many a patron over the years with her bare hands. And her daughter, Joanna, starkly reminiscent of the pregnant young lady before him, and he’s struck with a wave of homesickness. 

“His new wife, Madeleine,” Molly Brown whispers to him conspiratorially when the pair have turned away to greet other passengers. At Sam’s sharp look, she gives him a smile. “I saw you looking.”

“I wasn’t... I thought...”

“Don’t you worry about it, sonny. You won’t be the only one thinking, you can be sure of that. Come on, now!” She turns to the young man behind her, dark-haired and whippet-thin in a smart suit, sweating under the weight of an armful of her luggage. “We don’t have all day, let’s get ourselves settled in and we can join these fine folk later on.”

They disappear, to find their cabins no doubt, and Sam is left standing alone amid a flurry of socialites and businessmen, still uncertain of his place among them but pretending for all the world like he’s belonged for his entire life. 

He looks around then for Dean, expecting to find him talking to a pretty young girl and flashing her his charm, but instead, his brother is standing on the staircase, leaning one hip against the banister and looking up at the clock, a pensive expression upon his face. His arms are folded tightly, as though giving himself a hug, and the tension in his shoulders belays his discomfort. He doesn’t like sea travel, never has, and has been dreading the return journey to New York ever since they arrived in Europe all those weeks ago. He had vanished into his cabin as soon as he’d been shown which one was his, straight-backed and tense, and had emerged a half-hour later looking, well, not relaxed exactly but more capable of dealing with the situation that he’s been presented with. Sam knows why: he’d heard the unmistakable clink of bottles when their steward had lifted one of Dean’s bags and had seen his brother’s eyes flick sharply to the offending item of luggage, a brief expression of guilt fleeting across his features. The only unknown question is whether it’s a beer or two that Dean has had to settle his nerves, or if he’s started early on the hard spirits. It wouldn’t be out of character; the elder Winchester had spent most of the journey to France comatose in his room under the influence of a bottle of cheap vodka he’d procured in the hours before boarding. 

Sam remembers that day to a fault. He and Jack have boarded already, and were in their cabin, Sam reclining on a plunger while Jack scurried to and fro, directing the porters and telling them what went where. This had been the first time Sam had travelled internationally as a First Class passenger and he’d been determined to enjoy every second of it. By then, they were less than an hour from departure and Dean hadn’t shown up. Sam has resigned himself to a month in Europe with mainly Jack for company, meeting up with Jessica and her mother in England prior to their return home on RMS Titanic. Perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad thing, he’d reflected. Some time apart would do them both the world of good. Sam could relax into his new world, and Dean could consider his place in it and finally find his peace with being a man of new money rather than scratching around to earn a living, caring for their alcoholic father, and dusting off his bruised knuckles after one too many drinks. 

But moments after Jack had poured Sam another glass of champagne, staring longingly at the bottle and wishing he was of an age to enjoy it himself, there had been a clamouring outside their cabin followed by a clatter of fists upon the door, and Sam had got to his feet to investigate the source of the racket. 

The source had been Dean, steaming drunk and laughing as a steward and a porter held him up between them. His shirt had been unfastened to mid-chest, hair askew, cheeks flushed, and the smell of cheap spirits had pervaded the air in the corridor. Sam has cast furtive looks up and down, then dragged Dean into the room by his belt, standing back to allow the ship’s staff to follow. 

“He claims he’s traveling with you, Mr. Winchester,” the steward had sniffed, looking at Dean distastefully as the elder Winchester had collapsed down into Sam’s vacated seat and was reaching for the untouched glass of champagne, which Sam quickly whipped out of reach. Dean had flared, but Sam had paid him no attention. 

“He is. My apologies,” Sam had held out a hand towards Jack who had instantly pressed his billfold into it. “Will this cover any inconvenience?”

The men’s eyes had bulged at the notes they’d been presented with, had both nodded, then the porter had mumbled something about arranging Dean’s luggage and they’d both vanished from the room. 

“Need to relax, little brother,” Dean had slurred. “You’ll give yourself a nosebleed.”

Then the older Winchester had stumbled to his own cabin and only reappeared a few hours before dinner the following day, subdued and quiet, with a greyish tinge to his skin. 

“Dean?” Sam approaches him now, touching his brother on the elbow. “Are you quite alright?”

“Yes,” Comes the clipper, automatic reply. “I’ll be much happier when we’re back on dry land though. I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Sam.” Worried green eyes suddenly turn to him and Sam feels a pang of sympathy for his brother. “Perhaps we should have disembarked in France. Stayed a while longer.”

“Dean, it’s going to be fine. I know you don’t like ships, but there’s nothing to worry about.” Sam slaps a palm down onto the shining banister. “This is the finest ship in the world, remember? And not only that, she’s unsinkable. Unsinkable! You need to try and relax, enjoy the journey if you can.” In his peripheral vision, a dark-haired woman glides past, almost close enough to touch, ascending the stairs gracefully. “I know I will be.”

“Mmm.” Dean follows his gaze and makes a noncommittal sound. “It’s exhausting, pretending to be a gentleman all the time. I think I’d have more fun in steerage.”

“Dean!” Sam reprimands him, pulling him in close to hiss in his brother’s ear. “Don’t. Remember our life before? How little we had? We’d have been lucky to be in steerage. This is who we are now. And I don’t want anyone on this ship knowing anything different, is that clear?” 

“Let go of me.” Dean shakes himself loose, his expression darkening. “And don’t speak to me like that. You ain’t dad.”

“No. I’m not. And neither are you, though you seem determined to turn into him.” Sam straightens and takes a step back, adjusting his tie. “I’m going to change for dinner. I’ll meet you back here, don’t be late.” Or drunk, he thinks to himself as he strides away, glancing back once over his shoulder to see if Dean had decided to follow him. 

His brother hasn’t moved; he’s still standing staring up at the clock, looking for all the world like a man waiting his turn for the gallows. 

*

**April 9th, 1912, 7:35pm**

“Mr. Winchester?” There’s a sharp knock at the door, and a moment later it opens to reveal Jack, standing almost to attention, every muscle in his body wound tight and an expression of pride on his face. “I’ve come to walk with you to dinner. Mr. Winchester - the other Mr. Winchester, goodness it’s confusing - said you might need my assistance in finding the dining room.”

“Oh, might I?” Dean raises an eyebrow at him. “How kind. And do come in, please.”

“Thank you.” Jack, missing the sarcasm in Dean’s tone, closes the door behind him. “Shall we go? Oh.” He stops short, taking in Dean’s appearance. “Do you need help changing? I know you didn’t bring a valet, so...”

“A valet?” Dean scoffs, finishing his Scotch in one mouthful. “No, I didn’t bring a valet. I’m capable of fastening my own pants, but thank you for the offer.”

“Then why...?” Jack trails off, coming to his senses and realising that it isn’t his place to question his employer’s brother. But Dean just smirks, setting the crystal tumbler down with a clatter and heaving himself to his feet. 

“Why am I not dressed in the appropriate attire for dinner with the world’s finest?” Turning, Dean walks away across the room and opens the door to the private promenade deck that the steward had taken such pride in showing him. The wind immediately catches his hair, blowing it out of any semblance of style, and he breathes in the sea air deeply. The whiskey has settled his nerves somewhat and he feels much more mellow than when they had boarded hours ago. “Because I’m not going. So you can run along and help Sam comb his hair, he’ll definitely need help with that.”

“You’re... not going?” Jack seems utterly perplexed. “But why not?”

“I assume you’re looking for a more sophisticated answer than ‘I don’t want to’?” Dean says archly. 

“But...” Jack is clearly floundering, caught between his instructions from Sam and Dean’s resolute refusal to comply. “But Mr. Winchester, I...”

“You can tell the other Mr. Winchester to enjoy himself, and that I’ll see him at breakfast tomorrow.” He knows he’s being rude, but can’t seem to help himself. Perhaps he’s not as relaxed as he thought. “See yourself out.”

He steps out onto the promenade deck and closes the door behind him, effectively cutting off Jack’s desperate protestations. Poor kid. Sam has him running around after him like an eager puppy and it’s a little discomfiting to watch. He means to speak to Sam about his attitude of late, hiring staff at every turn and summoning them whenever he sees fit, then sending them to Dean to harass him in one way or another, usually under the guise of ‘advice’ or ‘requests’. Dean just wants to be left to his own devices. 

The deck is partially exposed, walled on three sides and ornately decorated, then opening up onto a small area where he heads to now, leaning over the railings with his hands clasped, feeling the wind in his hair. They aren’t going too fast, maybe nineteen or twenty knots by his uneducated estimate, and he’s glad of that. Anything faster and he’s sure he would bring up anything in his stomach - currently, nothing but bile and expensive Scotch, which would be highly unpleasant. The skies are darkening now, the sun an explosion of colour on the horizon and the stars visible directly above him, waking up for the night watch. The moon is a neat slice off to his left, stark against the inky blue of the heavens, and Dean shivers in the chill of the wind. He hadn’t thought it would be so cold on deck, but he supposed he should have known this without having to experience it. It’s nighttime, it’s April, and they’re somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean a mere few hundred feet about the water itself. He thinks back to summers in Kansas and wishes desperately that he were back there now, feeling the sun burn his skin and shielding his eyes against the brightness of the light as he called Sam in for dinner.

Those were simpler times. Sad times, of course. Especially towards the end. But he has some good memories of his childhood, most of them revolving around his brother and his father, and the occasional trip they took together hunting or fishing or hiking. Spending time together, just family. Nothing like the life he lives today. He feels caught, trapped like a fly in a web, and as though something dark and ominous is rising up behind him, poised to strike at any given moment.

He isn’t exactly a gentleman, he knows this. He’s never pretended to be one. But even so, he’s attracted the attention of a few society ladies and, worse, their mothers who swoon over him and coo at what a wonderful husband he would make for their daughters and what a ‘wonderful match’ it would be if they joined their families. His new money doesn’t seem to be too much of a deterrent; on the contrary, their eyes light up when he tells them vaguely of how he came about his current wealth. The girls simper and the mothers put their hands on his arm and say things like ‘gracious, what an exciting story’ or ‘oh, the grandchildren would love to hear all about this’. It sickens him, really. He’s never considered settling down with anyone, but if he does he likes to think it would be someone like Joanna, the girl back home whom he’s always treated as a sister. She’s strong, brash, brave, and distinctly unladylike and doesn’t care for society’s bells and whistles. Her mother, Ellen, is much of the same and it’s clear to see where Joanna gets her spunky personality from. 

Now, melancholy and missing home, he fumbles in his pocket and retrieves his tobacco and paper, rolling a cigarette between experienced fingers and striking up a match, cupping his hand over it to protect the flame from the wind. It takes a few tries but eventually he lights it and inhales, filling his lungs and coughing a little as the acrid smoke catches the back of his throat. He exhales through both nostrils, twisting his lips to one side and putting aside all thoughts of Ellen and Joanna for now. He misses them. He misses it all. This isn’t what he pictured when, as a child, he imagined being rich. Not at all.

The ship judders a little beneath him, and he white-knuckles the railings. Damn. The sooner he’s back on dry land, the better for his nerves. Now he understands why women take to bed with stress - sleeping the journey away sounds quite attractive, in his opinion. 

He finishes his smoke and tosses the butt carelessly over the railings, turning away as he does and not caring where it lands. His throw was lazy, definitely not hard enough for the discarded cigarette to reach the water; it more likely landed on the deck below. Back inside, he throws on his jacket, left out for him by Jack with a small, handwritten note in a neat cursive script that reads, ‘ _ Mr. Winchester - If you change your mind. Regards, J. Kline.’  _ He snorts a laugh at the note - how typical of Jack - then, fumbling with his bowtie, he exits the room and heads for the stairs, ignoring everyone he passes. 

On reflection, it seems foolish to miss a meal. Is it his imagination, or do his pants already feel a little loose? Damn European food. He would love to sit down to a burger with Ellen right about now.

*

**9th April, 2912, 8:25pm**

“Mr. Winchester, how nice to see you.” The  restaurant manager  welcomes Dean with a smile, one that turns from surprise into cool professionalism in the space between one blink and the next. His hair is slicked back with pomade and his glasses are small and circular, giving him the appearance of some sort of twitchy rodent. “My sincere apologies, I was informed by your brother that you weren’t dining with us tonight. I’ll have the waiters set you a place at the table.” 

He snaps his fingers sharply at the two younger men flanking the double doors, who immediately nod a small bow to Dean before vanishing into the restaurant. Dean waves away his apology, his blood singing with the shot of Scotch he’d quickly swallowed before leaving the room, and takes in his surroundings. Low lighting, the murmur of political and economic discussions, ladies laughing, the clink and chink of crystal glasses and china plates, and in the midst of it all - Sam. Sitting at a large circular table flanked by two men that Dean recognises from their introductions earlier, but can’t name, and with Jessica sitting opposite him, her blonde curls twisted into an artful style on the top of her head, jewels glinting at her wrists and decollete. She looks as bored by the whole debacle as Dean feels. And, two seats along from her, dark-haired and imperious: Ruby. Dean snorts quietly as the restaurant manager reappears with a dark-haired, dark-eyed waiter in tow. Both of them are dressed in black tie, shoes shined to perfection, and not a hair out of place.

“Mr Nannini will show you to your table, sir. He’s one of our finest waiters.” At this praise, Mr. Nannini lifts his chin in pride. “The kitchen was on the brink of closing but I spoke with the chef and you may have whatever you choose from the menu.”

“Thanks,” Dean pulls a folded note out of his pocket and holds it flat between his middle and forefinger, pressing it into Mr. Nannini’s chest. The man takes it reflexively, blinking in surprise. “I can find the table on my own, don’t trouble yourself. But some champagne would be great, thanks.”

Sam’s face, when he sees him, is a picture. He stands, napkin in his hand, and Dean resists the urge to roll his eyes. Napkins. Nobody uses napkins seriously, not where they’re from. But in this world, everyone does, and he supposes he should have learned this by now. He risks making a damn fool of himself if he doesn’t try and take into account the ways of these people and at least attempt to fit in the way Sam is doing. He wouldn’t care much if he embarrassed himself, and probably has done a hundred times over since boarding the ship, but Sam would care. And he cares about Sam, so the gentlemanly thing to do is to play up to his role and smile demurely, carry out a polite conversation, laugh and smoke and drink brandy after dinner while remarking on his good fortune to anyone who cared to listen. Be a gentleman, at least in practice if nothing else.

“Dean! Jack said you were feeling unwell.” Sam gestures at a nearby waiter to pull the empty chair out opposite him - a gesture which grates on Dean’s nerves - and says, “You remember everybody, don’t you?”

In that moment, as Dean realises where he’s to be sitting, he regrets being late for dinner. But he risks being incredibly rude if he turns and walks away now, so he plasters a brittle smile onto his face and sits down where the waiter directs him, unfurling his napkin and spreading it on one knee. His glass is filled almost instantly with gently bubbling champagne and he drinks half of it in one gulp before remembering where he is.

A light hand touches his wrist and he jolts, only just stopping himself from snatching his hand away. A sickly-sweet aroma of fragrance greets him as he turns to look at his companion - and the woman determined to steal his brother’s heart and, in his opinion, the majority of his money whatever the cost.

“Dean.” Ruby says, her rouge-tinted lips lifting in a smile to reveal straight, white teeth. She has a deep blue sapphire nestled in her cleavage and a string of pearls woven into her hair. Her dress is black and beaded, lace draping over her shoulders, and she looks wonderful. Shame her beauty is only on the outside. “So glad you could join us. Isn’t it a wonderful party?”

“Yeah. Wonderful.” 

Abruptly deciding he doesn’t give a shit about rules and decorum any more, after a mere ten minutes of trying, he reaches for a bread roll and tears it in half with his hands, earning a grimace from the elderly man to Sam’s left and an open-mouthed stare from two of the other diners. Molly Brown’s eyebrow and lips lift in a small smile, and Jessica’s eye twinkles as she catches his gaze then quickly looks away. Sam, tight-lipped, looks disapproving and his eyes flick fervently around the table to see if they’re being judged.

Dean’s glass is refilled by a waiter as if by magic, and he raises it in a toast to everyone around the table.

“To  _ Titanic.  _ The unsinkable ship.”

And after a moment’s hesitation, other glasses are raised both around their table and at neighbouring tables as a multitude of passengers join in, and his words echo around the room.

“To  _ Titanic _ . The unsinkable ship.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a couple of conflicting sources that say Molly Brown wasn't given the nickname Molly until later in life, but for the purposes of this fic, I'm calling her Molly. It suits her better than Margaret :)


	3. Chapter 3

**April 9th, 1912, 10:25pm**

Dinner wasn’t the unmitigated disaster that it could have been. On reflection, as he sits in the smoking lounge with a brandy in one hand and a Jose Morales in the other, it went fairly well. He didn’t offend any of the other diners, he wasn’t asked to leave, and he’s still sober enough to know where he is and who he’s with. 

And, incidentally, who he isn’t with. 

After dinner, as Dean rose with the other guests to retire to the smoking room, Sam had materialised at his side and tapped him on the shoulder. 

“I’m just going to take some air. I’ll see you in a little while.”

“Alright.” Dean had lifted and dropped one shoulder, not really very interested - until he’d noticed Sam turn to walk away and offer his arm to a woman. And not to Jessica, whom he’s engaged to, but to Ruby, who looks as superior and judgemental as ever. She had thrown a saccharine smile in Dean’s direction and walked from the dining room on Sam’s arm, as Dean had stared after them in discomfort. Something didn’t feel right; Ruby was insufferable, they all knew that. But to allow her to worm her way up to Sam like this? What is his brother thinking?

Jessica had left with her mother before he’d found the chance to speak to her, and he hadn’t even gotten a good look at her face. He can picture it though, her petite features pinched with hurt, a red flush across her cheeks, her mouth in a grim line. The more he thinks about it, the angrier he feels with Sam. What the _hell_ is going on? This isn’t like Sam, he’s usually incredibly respectful to people, especially to the women in his life. To allow Ruby to get so close to him is out of character, and shows just how toxic she is, in Dean’s opinion. He vows to speak to Sam either privately this evening when he finally shows his face, or over breakfast in the morning. 

“Another?” A British voice, rough and gravelly, cuts into his resolution. He looks up to see a man in a long black coat over his tuxedo standing over him, holding the half-empty bottle of brandy with a raised eyebrow. He gestures to Dean’s glass.

“No, thanks, I’ve barely touched…” Dean trails off, a little surprised to see the crystal tumbler in his hand almost empty. “Oh. Then, uh, yes. Please.”

The man chuckles, a strangely humourless sound, but pours another generous measure plus one for himself, before setting the decanter down on the side table and taking the seat opposite Dean. “Long evening?”

“I don’t like boats,” Dean says simply and the man smirks at him.

“Yet you’ve found yourself on the largest, finest ship in existence. Interesting.”

“Only way to get home.” Dean takes a large sip from his glass, relishing the burn of the alcohol as he swallows. Then, feeling rather rude, he swaps the cigar from his right hand to his left, holding it between finger and thumb while still keeping hold of his glass, and leans forward with his hand outstretched. “Winchester. Dean.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve been watching you and your brother since you boarded.” The man sips slowly from his own glass, regarding Dean with a strange type of interest. His gaze is curious, yet simultaneously dismissive, as though he wants to know a little more about Dean but thinks that whatever he might find out will be of little interest to him. “New money, aren’t you?”

Stung, Dean drops his hand and sits back in his chair. The air around them is thick with acrid cigar smoke and he adds to it, inhaling and exhaling just to buy himself a few precious seconds before he responds. “Maybe. Does it matter?”

“Probably to some people in this room. Not to me. Once you scratch the surface, most people are just the same. Rich, poor, it doesn’t matter much. We’re all just trying to survive in the lives we’ve been given.”

“That’s mighty cryptic of you,” Dean says, patience beginning to wear thin. “And I’m sure half the folk in this room would take offence at being compared to steerage.”

“I’m sure they would. Not you, though.” It’s a statement, not a question, and Dean frowns. The man is short, stocky, all in black, with a neatly cropped beard and an air of sardonic superiority about him. He rocks his glass back and forth between two fingers, the amber liquid inside sloshing from one side to the other. A silver ring glints on his wedding finger. After a moment’s pause, he extends a hand and Dean leans in to take it warily. “Fergus Crowley. A pleasure, Mr. Winchester.”

“Yeah, pleasure’s all mine.” Downing the rest of his drink and starting to feel more than a little hazy, Dean deposits his glass on the table beside the decanter with a little more force then he intended. A few heads at the next table turn to look and he averts his gaze, cheeks heating at the unwanted attention. “What brings you to this fine ship, Fergus Crowley?”

“Business,” Crowley says simply, snapping his fingers at a passing waiter. “More brandy for us both.”

“None for me,” Dean waves a hand lazily. “Need to be heading to bed.”

“So soon?” Crowley says, with a twinkle of mirth in his eye. “Am I boring you?”

“Nope.” Placing his hands on his knees to help himself stand, Dean inclines his head to Crowley. “It’s been a long day. I’m sure I’ll see you tomorrow,” then, as the waiter reappears as if from nowhere with a fresh decanter and clears away the empty one, he adds, “if there is one.”

“You really are a nervous traveller, aren’t you?” Crowley is watching him again with that same strange expression on his face. “You’re like a twitchy squirrel - if you’ll pardon the comparison.”

“Sure. Pardoned. Goodnight.” 

Irrationally irritated, both by Sam’s peculiar behaviour with Ruby and at the strange conversation with this unwelcome stranger, Dean turns his back and heads for the door on the opposite side of the room. All around him, men are standing in small clusters, laughing and conversing and visibly revelling in their own successes. They all clutch crystal glasses filled with whisky, brandy, Scotch, gin, anything strong and alcoholic, and Dean’s skin itches with the desire to have just one more as a nightcap. Perhaps he can have something sent to his cabin. No, he corrects himself, his _suite_. People in this world don’t inhabit such hovels as cabins; those are saved for the people in the lower classes. The people he now surrounds himself with require multiple rooms and an array of staff just to take them on a few days’ journey from one side of the world to the other. Although he has to admit, he’d rather sit this one out in luxury than cramped below decks like a sardine in a tin can. 

He deserves this, he tries to reason with himself as he slips past a small group of elderly men who visibly look him up and down as he does. He grew up dirt poor, he worked his fingers to the bone from before he was even in his teens - he deserves to take it easy for a while. To have a few things handed to him, to have people fetch and carry and do whatever he asks them to.

The problem is, he rarely asks anyone to do anything for him because he’s been there. He’s been the person who’s had fingers snapped at them, who’s been shouted at for getting something wrong, for being summoned from one task to another then reprimanded for not doing either in good time. He remembers how it felt, and the last thing he wants to become is someone who steps on those he deems to be below him just because he can. 

Although he can’t really think of anyone he would consider below him. Ruby, perhaps. On a good day.

He nods to the waiter who opens the glass panelled door to the smoking room for him, slipping a note into the man’s top pocket and nodding distractedly at the muttered thanks. A tense feeling of worry has settled itself beneath his sternum yet again, a feeling he can’t understand or explain, and he just wants to go to bed. He takes a detour on the way to his room, desperately in need of some air.

He walks along the deck, finding himself to be on the roof of the smoking room judging by the voices and laughter that drift up to meet him, smoking slowly and looking up at the starlit sky. He can hear the crashing of the waves below him as the _Titanic_ makes her way resolutely across the Atlantic, and he folds his arms around himself as a chill makes him shiver unexpectedly. His breath clouds faintly in front of him and he pauses for a moment, looking over the railings and down into the black water below him. It’s a long drop. The light from a few portals casts an eerie glow out onto the ocean, highlighting the tips of the waves which are moving faster and more violently than he’d anticipated. The ship is evidently moving more quickly than he’d thought, and he spares a second to marvel at how smooth the journey is. He has to admit it, he’s impressed. _Titanic_ is really living up to her name as the jewel of the _White Star Line_. It’s just a shame he feels like he wants to shed the expensive tuxedo he’s wearing, roll up his sleeves, and head down into the lower decks of the ship to find himself some people who he’d be more at home with. It’s stifling, being in a room with the people he’s being forced to associate with. It feels like he’s choking, as though invisible hands are wrapped around his throat and are tightening slowly as every day passes.

He can’t wait for them to arrive in New York. No, that isn’t accurate. He can’t wait to leave New York, to head back to Kansas to the place he calls home. It’s been too long, way too long, and he misses the familiarity of the streets he grew up on, the buildings he knows by heart, the voices and the faces of the people who he’s seen almost daily since he was a child. He misses Ellen and Joanna. He misses the dirt beneath his boots and the warm air in his lungs, the wind pushing through his hair and the dry heat chapping his lips during the summer. He misses the wide roads, the sprawling farms, the cattle trails. He wants to go home.

Sleeping the rest of the journey in a drunken stupor is seeming more attractive by the minute.

He passes a few people and nods to them silently, pulling his collar up against the cold. Some nod back, equally uncommunicative as they take in the night air, but some actively ignore him and turn away. He doesn't care. They aren't his people.

Back inside, he shivers and blows into his cupped hands to try and encourage some warmth back into them. The cold is bitter, penetrating deep into his bones and he can’t wait to get back to his suite and clamber into the soft, comfortable bed and fall asleep. Rubbing his palms together vigorously and lamenting his own stupidity at not bringing his overcoat, he finds his room in relatively quick time and fishes in his pocket for his key.

“Mr. Winchester!” The disembodied voice of Jack comes brightly from somewhere to his left, and Dean jumps so much that he drops the key and grumbles in irritation as he stoops to pick it up. Had the boy been lying in wait for him or something? “Did you have a nice dinner?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Then, unable to resist a jab, he says, “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

“No, not yet!” Jack misses the dig completely. “I thought I’d wait until you and the other Mr. Winchester were back, just in case you needed anything. Do you? Need anything?”

“Sam isn’t back yet?” Dean’s brow creases in concern. “Do you know where he is?”

“Yes. He’s taking the air with Ms. Cortese.”

“Still? How much air does he need?” As Jack opens his mouth to respond, Dean waves him away. “Don’t answer that. And don’t wait up - Sam is a big boy, he can get himself into bed on his own.”

 _And he’d better be_ , Dean thinks irritably. _He’d better be on his own._ Or his conversation with Sam over breakfast might be more candid than he intended.

“I should wait…” 

Jack looks uncomfortable at the suggestion and Dean shrugs. Jack will do what he feels is necessary, and will probably stay up just so that he can feel useful by helping Sam unfasten his cufflinks or something else equally ridiculous. He doesn’t say this, though. Jack is harmless, if a little irritating, and he wants so badly to do his job to the best of his abilities. Dean doesn’t want to hurt his feelings. 

“Whatever makes you happy. Goodnight.” He turns the key in the lock and opens the door then, after a second’s hesitation, he turns to Jack’s retreating back. “Could you get me a drink? Scotch? I think I ran out earlier.”

“A nightcap? Of course! I’ll be right back.”

And he’s gone, scampering off down the corridor with so much energy that his perfectly combed hair bounces in spite of the pomade slicking it back, and Dean can’t help but chuckle to himself as he lets himself into his suite. The boy is kind of sweet. A little bit like an irritating little brother. But still.

He’s so tired that he walks straight to the bedroom and collapses down on the bed without even taking his shoes off. _Just one minute_ , he thinks to himself as his eyes fall closed. _I’ll lie down for just one minute then I’ll get up and get changed. Just one minute…_

When he wakes up, the bedroom is glowing gold with the early morning sunrise, he’s lying beneath a warm feather comforter in just his undershirt and underpants, and his shoes are nowhere to be seen. The window is open just a little, allowing a cool breeze into the room and cleansing it off the stench of stale alcohol from the night before. He can hear stewards moving around in the corridors outside, talking in low voices and no doubt sweeping and dusting and ensuring the corridor is spotless in preparation for the emergence of the guests in time for breakfast. A glass of water and a jug sits on the bedside table next to him, and the nightcap he had requested hours earlier is nowhere to be seen. He collapses back against the pillows, pulling the covers up as he settles down for another hour or two’s sleep, laughing to himself in spite of the headache that threatens at his temples. 

Jack had found a way to make himself useful after all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Extract from journal found in Collapsible C on April 15th (author unknown):**

_ I don’t fit in here, with these people. I can hardly believe I once wanted to. They call it ‘The Ship of Dreams’. And to them, it is. It really is. Everything anybody could ever need is right here, in the middle of the goddamn ocean. But to me?  _

_ It’s hell. I’m in hell. And I don’t know how to escape.  _

_ I feel as though nobody can help me. _

*

**April 10th, 1912, 7:50am**

Not good. 

This is not good, Dean thinks as he pushes his way out of the glass double doors, sweat beading on his brow and his heart pounding so loudly that the waiter nearby must be able to hear it. The door to the promenade deck stands open nearby and he all but barrels through it, narrowly missing a collision with a curvaceous woman in the process. 

“Slow down, sonny!” He hears her call out in his wake, but he doesn’t. He can’t. He’s tugging at his throat to unbutton the collar of his shirt, feeling as though his lungs are collapsing in on themselves. What is happening to him? He needs light and air and space and dry land and not to be on this damn floating prison for one more second...

His hands meet the sturdy iron of the promenade railing and then he’s looking down to the deck below, where few men and women mingled at this early hour. The cold morning air chills his skin, the wind poking through his hair, yet he still feels overheated and his palms are damp with sweat. He becomes aware of another passenger nearby, a man with a much younger woman with a distinctive curve to her stomach, watching him in a mixture of trepidation and concern. He nods to them and turns away, moving further down the deck towards a large crane, which he sidles behind and clasps his hands, resting them on the railing then resting his forehead on his wrists. Fuck. 

His breath rattles in his chest, but it’s getting easier. He’d just felt so claustrophobic in there, trussed up in a morning suit - a suit for breakfast, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get truly used to this - and as Sam had spooned a truly horrific mixture of prunes, dates and oatmeal into a bowl and had attempted to encourage Dean to do the same, panic had hit. It had come out of the blue, like hitting a solid obstacle head-on, and he’d barely managed to excuse himself before rising from their table and bolting from the room. He’d heard his brother exclaim his name, but had ignored him in favour of finding some solace in his own company, and some fresh air. 

It had been fun to begin with. Dean had felt like a new man, with money in his pocket for the first time in his life. He had worked, of course, but the jobs he had secured had all been long hours, manual labour, and low pay. And all the money he’d earned had gone towards paying the rent on their family home, since John couldn’t work in the years before his death, and helping Sam to get together a down payment to open his shop. Any money he’d had left over he’d spent on cheap alcohol (he got more for his buck that way) and nicotine, to feed his addictions. 

His relationship with alcohol had never been fantastic, but had deteriorated rapidly with the onset of his father's illness and subsequent death. By the time John had received his diagnosis from the town’s physician, Sam had secured a place at the University of Kansas and was spending a lot of time in his lectures and practicing for the football team. He had graduated in 1910 and had spent the following year working hard and saving up as much as he could, with the plan to open his own shop slowly taking form. Dean had been left to pick up the pieces at home, tending to his increasingly ailing father and using whiskey and vodka every evening to numb the pain of his own emotions and to help him drift off to sleep. 

Then, one morning, Dean’s father hadn’t been sitting at the old kitchen table when Dean had gone downstairs for breakfast, and a cold feeling had set in, gripping his bones and tightening his throat. He had found John in his bedroom, slumped in an awkward position as though he had attempted to get out of bed and fallen, his face a sickening grey colour, lips swollen and blue, and a putrid mixture of blood and vomit trailing from his lips to pool on the rough wooden floor. The smell was one Dean will never forget as long as he lives. He had run to the window, thrown it open, and vomited, retching and coughing until all he could bring up was bile, then had slid down the wall to sit on the floor at the feet of his deceased father, too shocked to find any tears. 

John had passed away sometime in the night, he was told, likely the victim of a massive heart attack. Dean had asked if his father had suffered, and the doctor had said he didn’t think so. But he hadn’t met Dean’s gaze as he’d said it, so the validity of his reassurance was questionable. It haunts Dean to this day. 

He’d told Sam that evening, when his brother had walked in from work, and the funeral had been later that week. In the blistering heat of a Kansas summer, they’d bid their father goodbye, and while Sam saw it as freedom from the chains of family responsibilities, Dean had never felt more adrift. A feeling that is yet to abate, two years on. 

He gazes down over the railings, unseeing, at the deck below. A couple more people are moving around now, two men in flat caps and brown tweed jackets, collars turned up against the morning chill. Familiar clothes that he himself used to wear. His hand goes unconsciously to his own throat and the loosened buttons there. A woman with a shawl wraps it tightly around her shoulders, baby in arms, laughing with someone younger, possibly her daughter. Two children run in zig-zags, playing a game of chase, their giggles caught and thrown up to him on the wind. He feels a deep pang of longing for the life below him. Simple, easy, carefree. Not like his existence today. 

A door opens and closes behind him and he startles, muscles in his shoulders tensing as though someone is about to strike him from behind. It’s become a visceral reaction whenever he hears someone approach him; he’s been on the receiving end of many a punch and many a verbal lashing in the past - both from strangers and people close to him - and it’s left him a little jumpier than he would like. 

Beneath him, the scent of cigarette smoke rises in a thin cloud, blown sideways by the breeze and the forward motion of the ship. It takes Dean a moment to locate the source, his own skin prickling as he realises how badly he wants a smoke. There’s a man standing at the railings of the poop deck, wrists crossed, dark hair blowing in the wind, occasionally raising one hand to his mouth, the glowing tip at his fingers a clear sign that he’s having a morning smoke. Dean can only see a partial profile; he’s turned away, bent forwards to look out at the ocean ahead of them. Dean wishes he was standing next to him, nudging him to bum a smoke or two and staring down at the waves beneath him. Not sequestered up here, above the people he really belongs with. 

He doesn’t realise he’s staring until the man turns, possibly feeling eyes boring into the back of his head, and Dean is instantly pinned by a cold blue gaze, and a raised eyebrow, a challenge as if to say ‘Yes? What?’

“Sorry,” he says at once, the apology automatic at his lips, but it’s said so softly that he knows it will have been whipped away on the wind and the other man won’t have heard him. “I wasn’t staring, I...”

The words die on his lips as he locks eyes with the man. Blue eyes, the colour of the lapping waves below them, the colour of the sky after the sun has set and before the stars come out for the night. He realises his breath is trapped in his chest and exhales sharply, surprised at himself. It isn’t like him to be so instantly flustered by the sight of someone. The man has turned fully now to face him, and is reclining against the railings, elbows propping him up and one heel up on the lowest bar. A trail of cigarette smoke winds a ladder up into the air, dispersing sooner than it would were they on dry land as the wind intervenes. It’s a still, calm morning, the sun a brilliant beacon in the clear skies, but there’s always a breeze of some sort on the decks of the  _ Titanic.  _ In a strange movement, the man extends the hand holding the cigarette out towards Dean, as though offering it to him, although to do so would be entirely impossible thanks to the distance between them - both physical and metaphorical. But, more than anything in the world right now, Dean wants to be down there with him and taking the half-smoked cigarette from his fingertips. 

Without his consent, his hand has lifted and is reaching out towards the man on the deck below, as though he thinks he can actually reach him, and for a moment it seems as though they are the only two people on the ship, afloat in the Atlantic Ocean together with nobody else within a thousand miles. Dean opens his mouth to call out to the man, and -

“Dean? Dean!” A door bangs behind him and in a flurry of movement and irritation and overpriced French cologne, Sam is at his side. Dean eyes his brother balefully, and not without a little envy. Sam always did manage to look good in a suit. He just looks like a penguin. “Where did you run off to all of a sudden?”

“I just needed some space,” Dean says, not without irritation. “I’ll be back soon. Go and enjoy your breakfast.”  _ And leave me alone. _

“Benjamin Guggenheim probably thought you were very rude,” Sam says reproachfully and Dean has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “He was in the middle of telling us a really funny story, about…”

“Sam.” Dean cuts him off sharply. “I need a minute. Go back inside.”

“I know you don’t like traveling, Dean, but this is ridiculous. You can’t spend the entire journey either hiding away or ignoring everybody who tries to speak to you. You need to socialize, make an effort. You could try getting to know people…”

“Oh, I could? You’ve been doing that well enough for the both of us,” Dean snorts and Sam stops talking abruptly. His brows furrow and a splash of colour appears on his cheeks. 

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“The hell you don’t. What are you playing at, Sammy? One minute you’re planning a wedding to Jessica Moore, the next you’re off in a dark corner somewhere with that  _ woman _ . That ain’t you. What’s going on?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Sam says stiffly, starting to turn away, but Dean grabs his shoulder and spins him back around so that they’re facing each other once more. 

“Try me.”

“No, Dean. It doesn’t matter. Whatever you think is going on between Ruby and me, you’re wrong.” Sam cuts himself off and nods as two gentlemen in morning coats walk past, smiling stiffly at them. “Anyway, it’s not your business. It’s private.”

“Oh, it’s private?” Dean scoffs, unable to stop himself from laughing. “Didn’t look too private when the pair of you wandered off into the sunset together last night. The whole damn room could see how she was looking at you. If you ask me, she’s only interested in one thing, and it isn’t your sparkling personality.”

“I’m not asking you, Dean.” Sam snaps, flushing even more now. “Neither of us are. So forget about it, and come back to breakfast.”

There’s a long, pointed silence between them, where both Winchester brothers glare at each other wordlessly and Dean clenches his fists in anger. All his impotent fury at being trapped aboard this floating prison is threatening to boil over, and even though he doesn’t care at all what anyone on the ship thinks of him, he doesn’t want to have a public brawl with his brother. Even if Sam is up to no good with a woman who Dean doesn’t trust for one second, he doesn’t want to argue with Sam in front of the other passengers. 

“Mr. Winchester?” Jack’s voice floats from the doorway and both brothers turn to look at him. He’s standing holding the door open, smartly dressed and shoes polished to a mirror shine. He’s holding Sam’s overcoat draped over one arm, an arm he extends nervously. He clearly realises he’s interrupted something. “I thought you might want this. It’s cold out here.”

It isn’t cold. Jack clearly just wanted to show he could be useful, and Dean has to feel a little sorry for the boy. It’s embarrassing, how desperate he is to please. 

“No, Jack. But thanks. I’m coming inside now. Dean?” Sam turns to him, and Dean can read in his brother’s eyes how he hopes they can just put this conversation behind them and enjoy the rest of the morning. 

Sam might be able to go back in there and rub shoulders with everyone and eat grapes and caviar and whatever else might be on offer, but Dean can’t. His stomach growls, but he resolutely ignores it. He can eat later. 

“I don’t think so.” Dean loosens his tie, tugs it free, and crams it into his pocket. “I’m going for a walk. Enjoy your breakfast.”

“Dean,” Sam begins but it’s futile. Dean has already turned away and is walking briskly down the deck, casting a furtive glance down to see if the dark-haired man with the ocean blue eyes is still standing there smoking. 

He’s gone, and Dean suddenly feels oddly alone. 

*

**April 10th, 1912, 7:25pm**

Dinner is in a half-hour. He can hear voices and laughter and merriment outside in the corridor as he dresses, the sounds of the First Class meandering off for a night of champagne, cigars, and the finest food money can buy, all lounging in each other’s company and complimenting themselves and each other just because they can. Sam is likely among them, Jessica on one arm and Ruby on the other, Jack padding along behind them and looking for every small opportunity to be of use. 

It repels Dean. 

He’s spent the day alone, exploring his area of the ship and keeping out of Sam’s way. Jack, who has clearly been sent on some kind of mission to retrieve him, is harder to evade, and Dean had found himself constantly ducking in and out of random rooms and doorways to avoid their paths crossing. 

He’d worked out in the gymnasium, returned to his room to bathe, change clothes, and swallow down two fingers of Scotch, then had lounged in the Turkish Baths until he was concerned he might pass out from overheating, and had done a few lengths in the swimming pool. He had rounded off his afternoon in the library, thumbing through a leather-bound copy of  _ Candide _ . At five o’clock, he asked a steward to draw him a bath and mulled over his plans for the evening. The idea had come to him while he was sitting in the cool room of the Turkish Baths, with his hair slicked back out of his face and his sweat drying on his skin. And in the early evening, he decided to go with it. 

The crystal decanter on the carved oak desk beneath the window is half-empty and there’s a pleasant buzz in his veins. He’s locked the door to his suite and left the key in, so that Jack or Sam or anyone else who might fancy dropping by can’t simply burst in and catch him by surprise. His clothes are carefully laid out on the bed, and he eyes his chosen outfit now as he pulls on his undergarments. It’s so far removed from what he should be wearing that it’s almost laughable. Sam wouldn’t find it amusing though, not in the slightest. He would hiss in Dean’s ear that he’s letting both of them down, and why can’t he just  _ try _ , and that if he made the effort he would really settle into this life. He just needs to  _ try _ .

Dean isn’t going to try. He’s had more than enough of trying over the last year, and he’s sick to the back teeth of it. 

The ornate clock above the equally ornate mantelpiece chimes. Seven thirty. Dinner is served. He reaches out, carefully removes the clock from its place, then opens the door to the promenade deck and walks out to the railings. In one sharp, strong throw the clock is cutting an arc through the cold evening air, sailing away from Dean until it vanishes out of sight below the railings of the deck below - then he hears it hit the water with a satisfying splash, leaving Dean with a strong feeling of elation at his rebellious act. It had been heavier than it looked.

He returns to his suite and locks the door to the promenade deck behind him, pocketing the key. He might need it later. Standing over the bed, he picks up his shirt and slides it on, fastening the cuffs with buttons instead of the solid gold cufflinks that currently reside in the safe hidden behind a panel in the wall. He leaves the shirt open-collar. His watch is absent, bought in Paris in a moment of madness and costing more than he thought possible to spend on something he couldn’t drive or live in; it’s now sitting alongside the cufflinks, and he won’t be wearing it tonight. The pants are next, a heavy tweed and very comfortable, not as tailored as the trousers he should be wearing to go to dinner with Sam and the rest. He snaps the braces into place over his shoulders, adjusting them for comfort. Then the jacket, matching tweed and then a flat cap to complete the look. He’d pulled the clothes from the bottom of one of his suitcases, and smoothed out the wrinkles before deciding it didn’t really matter. Where he’s going, he’s sure he won’t be judged on every aspect of his appearance, every thread of his clothing, every hair out of place. 

Dean isn’t going to dinner. Not tonight, not with Sam and Jessica and Ruby and whomever else, not with Jack lingering about like an overexcited Cocker Spaniel. He’s not doing it. 

He has something else in mind. 

He keeps his head down as he walks briskly down the corridors, earning himself a variety of looks from the other passengers. Some curious, some surprised, and some downright affronted -which means he’s achieved his goal of looking like he absolutely doesn’t fit in here. He takes the stairs downwards, then down again, trying to remember which way the elevator is. He isn’t sure where he’s going, in truth, but he knows it’s somewhere on F deck, and he’s currently on C. There must be a sign somewhere, a map perhaps. He can’t exactly ask anyone. 

Before he can wonder any further about how to get where he wants to be, his arm is grabbed roughly by someone behind him and he’s jerked to an abrupt stop.

“Sir?” A steward appears in his field of vision, looking well-heeled and incredibly superior as he looks Dean up and down. Cautious of being recognised, Dean ducks his head to look at both sets of shoes - the steward’s polished and his own scuffed from his nights out in Paris earlier that month. He had thrown them in his suitcase, ignoring Sam’s suggestions of buying a new pair, and now he’s glad he did. “Sir, do you hold a First Class ticket?”

Dean pauses. The air between them thickens in the space between the pointed question and his lack of response.

Then he says, “No. I don’t. Third Class, I’m afraid. Must’ve gotten myself lost looking for the dining hall.” He shoots the steward a brief, roguish grin from beneath his cap. “Could you show me the way?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Extract from journal found in Collapsible C on April 15th (author unknown):**

_ and I met someone tonight. And yet, I feel like I’ve known him my entire life. I felt connected to him in a way I’ve never felt with another human being, as though I knew him and he knows me and I could just be myself without having to put up any walls, or put on any pretenses. I may have only known him a few hours, but I truly feel as though _

*

It seemed like a good idea at the time. That’s what Dean is going to have written on his tombstone he thinks, as the steward guides him briskly deeper and deeper into the body of the ship - and Dean’s heart rate increases with every step. The hand on his elbow is firm, bony fingers digging into the ligaments and causing sharp twinges of pain, but he doesn’t attempt to pull away. Drawing any unnecessary attention to himself doesn’t feel prudent, and if he wants his plan to work then he just has to allow himself to be dragged to where he needs to be.

But oh  _ god _ , he had no idea he would end up this far into the ship’s innards. He feels like he can’t breathe, as though the air is thinner down here, somehow. There’s a stale smell, food mixed in with fuel and fresh paint, sweat and something cloying and sweet. And the  _ heat.  _ His skin is tacky with sweat, droplets of it bead on his brow and trickle down his face so he has to blink them away, and he already knows there are sweat patches under his arms and in the centre of his back. The steward, however, doesn’t seem affected at all, and that only serves to double Dean’s panic as he’s pulled around a corner and shown to a staircase. Keys jangle as the gates are unlocked and pulled back, and the metal bars clank and jam as the steward heaves on them. Dean gazes down and swallows. A bead of sweat escapes from under his cap and tracks it’s way into his left eye, causing him to blink rapidly against the sting. Below him, the stairway yawns widely, a gaping maw waiting to swallow him whole and he feels every muscle in his body tense as he fights the urge to turn and bolt. The steps are metal, steep, with a white handrail down one side, and he can hear voices milling around below, thick with shouts and laughter. A low rumble, a sound that hadn’t been audible on A or B deck - or one that he had never noticed - provides a nauseating form of white noise that only adds to the sensation of being trapped in the bowels of the ship. The sound makes heat rise in his cheeks and his stomach roils; he turns away, back towards the steward, gripping the hand rail with a slightly shaky hand.

“Is something the matter?” The older man asks him stiffly, and it’s clear from his tone that he doesn’t care if something  _ is _ the matter: Dean is going down that staircase whether he wants to or not.

“Well, uh…” Dean glances back at the stairs. “You see, I…”

Then he mentally shakes himself. _Get it together, Winchester._ _This is what you wanted. And it’s right here, only a few steps away. Stop being such a goddamn coward. You’re on the world’s only unsinkable ship - nothing is going to happen to you. And you can return to your own suite later. It’s only for a few hours. Get it_ together!

“I can’t go down there,” he blurts out, then curses himself for his idiocy. He’s come this far, and he’s about to sabotage himself for a momentary lapse in confidence. “I mean, is this the right way? It doesn’t look familiar.”

The steward is scrutinising him now with a strange look in his eyes and Dean drops his chin to hide his face. He isn’t sure how recognisable he would be to staff members. He doesn’t recognize this man, but that means nothing - he’s well aware that staff are primed and trained to remember the faces of their guests, especially those who have particularly deep pockets, so there’s every chance this man knows him and has seen him strolling about the ship - or lurching his way back to his cabin. That thought alone makes guilt wash over him and he doubles down on how bad he feels about his new lifestyle. Back home, he knew everyone. Rich, poor, friend, foe, decent person, asshole. They were all the same to him, and he remembered the faces of all the regulars in Ellen’s establishment or the customers in Sam’s grocery shop. He remembers every man his father used to drink with. He remembers every man (and woman) that Joanna would spend her time with. He made a point of never looking down on anybody. But now, realising that the man standing on the opposite side of the narrow corridor is all but faceless to him, as are the other crewmembers on board, he suddenly despises the person he’s become. 

“Sir,” the steward begins, a new note to his voice now. He doesn’t sound quite as riled. “Are you sure you hold a Third Class ticket?”

“Yes.” Firm now, Dean turns away and holds the guard rail, putting one foot onto the top step. “I am. All these corridors look the same to me. Now, excuse me. I must…”

He trails off intentionally, putting one foot in front of the other and descending the staircase, boots clanging on the metal as he feels the eyes of the steward on his back. He waits for a comment, to be called back, but nothing comes.

As he reaches the bottom step, he hears the sound of gates being hauled closed, and a key turning in a lock with a terrible sound of finality. And, alone in an empty corridor, his panic makes a return.

He doesn’t know what deck he’s on, can’t remember, but there are numbers on the doors and the voices are coming from a stairwell to his left. So he lurches right. Praying that the cabin nearest to him is empty, he grabs the handle, turns it firmly, darts inside, then closes the door and rests his forehead against it with his heart racing, trying to catch his breath. 

*

Sam is having a decidedly awful day. 

He thought that having two women lusting after him would be excellent fun. Dean always manages to make it look like a real riot, particularly over the last few months. But for Sam, it’s just stressful and unenjoyable, and he doesn’t know what he was thinking. 

He’s probably being kind to himself when he says he has two women lusting after him. One, certainly. The other doesn’t seem to care whether he looks her way or not. And, in typical romance-story fashion, she’s the one he wants to look his way.

He’d been relying on Dean to be here tonight, to provide him with a buffer against the two women, but also for some advice. He’s decided he needs to talk to his brother about what he’s got himself into, and the mess he can’t seem to find a way out of. Dean may not approve - in fact, he will probably shake his head and give an ill-advised and, frankly, hypocritical lecture - but he’ll understand. And he’ll try to help, Sam’s sure of it. He feels pretty guilty for snapping at Dean the way he had that morning, and knows his brother has spent the day avoiding him as a result. He hasn’t missed Dean’s struggles since boarding the ship. The problem is, he’s too busy trying to untangle his own.

“Sam?” He startles as Jessica appears behind him, looking beautiful in a floor-length evening gown and jewels wound into her curled blonde hair. An emerald pendant sits just above her cleavage and Sam averts his eyes in case he looks too closely and embarrasses them both.

“Can we talk?” She asks, and her expression is sweet, open - and is that a hint of impishness hiding in her eyes? “Unless you’d rather spend the evening with Ruby?” she inclines her head over Sam’s shoulder and he turns, seeing the other woman standing in a corner, dressed all in dark mauve, watching them with a haughty, stung expression on her face. “She looks like she’s awfully keen to get you alone.”

“I’m certain that she is.” Nodding to Benjamin Guggenheim as he passes, Sam places a hand on Jessica’s back and turns them towards the staircase. It’s the more difficult option, that’s for sure. Spending the night in Ruby’s company would be simple, predictable - and unwise. He needs to speak to Jessica in private as much as she seems to need to speak with him, and since Dean is nowhere to be seen to provide advice, he’s going to take the bull by the horns. He needs to tell her the truth, and there’s no time like the present. “I’d much rather spend the evening with you, as I’m sure you know. And I think we have a lot to talk about.”

“Yes,” she says, simply. “We do.”

And she allows him to guide her from the room as dark, glittering eyes watch them go from across the room. 

*

Panting, shaking, forehead and palms damp with sweat, Dean stands against the closed cabin door, breathing hard through his mouth. One hand still remains on the handle and the other up by his head, palm flat on the metal panel, while the gentle shuddering of the ship sends a strange sensation reverberating down his arm. He’s closer to the engine room, he realises, and what he’s feeling is the power behind  _ Titanic _ , propelling them towards their destination at an impressive speed. He’d overheard someone in the smoking lounge say that the engines were being pushed, that they wanted to reach New York early and make the headlines. He doesn’t think that sounds half bad - the sooner he gets his feet back on dry land, the better.

But for now, he’s trapped below decks, lost, and if he tries to go back up the stairs and call for the steward he risks making himself look insane. This was a terrible idea. He didn’t think it would be so cramped down here, so hot, so  _ loud _ , but it is - and now he’s stuck. Is anyone going to believe him if he somehow finds his way back to fresh air, wanders back to where he came from and says he got lost? That he was just pretending to be poor? That he cracked and went a little bit crazy for a while? It’s doubtful. Perhaps he can find the Third Class deck, find his suite, and climb up the railings. He has the key to the promenade deck safe in his breast pocket, so if he can only work out exactly where on the ship he is, he’s in with a chance. Maybe there’s a map somewhere nearby? Does such a thing exist? Or maybe he could -

“May we help you?”

He almost jumps out of his own skin as a clipped voice comes from behind him, the accent cool and typically British. Shit.  _ Shit _ . He’d hoped the cabin was empty and was so lost in his own churning thoughts that he hadn’t yet bothered to turn around and check. He prises his eyes open, only now realizing that he’s had them screwed tightly closed and releases his bottom lip from between his teeth. It throbs in protest. 

With a feeling of trepidation (and just a little foolishness) Dean turns slowly and surveys the room, tilting the peak of his cap up. Three men inhabit it, plus himself; it barely feels big enough for one, and does nothing to abate his claustrophobia. It’s tiny, the wood-paneled walls painted white with an insipid salmon colour on the floor beneath his feet, with two sets of bunk beds parallel to each other against the walls. No wardrobes. Knapsacks are piled in a corner, and a battered trunk is being used as a table by one man who has his back to Dean. A washbasin is fixed to the wall between the beds with a small mirror above, and the entire room seems to slant slightly to one side to, Dean supposes, allow for the curvature of the ship. The beds look hard and uncomfortable, with single thin blankets either spread neatly across them of bunched up in a corner, depending on the occupant’s disposition. There are no windows, no exits at all aside from the door Dean entered through, and he feels far too warm now, resisting the urge to tug at his collar. He grips the door handle tightly in one hand, resisting the urge just to bolt back the way he had come. 

On the top bunk of the bed closest to him, a man lies propped up on his elbows, peering down at Dean with quick, sharp eyes. He’s dressed all in black and around his neck is a beaded rosary. 

The man who spoke initially is sitting on the opposite bottom bunk, and he speaks again now, repeating his question. He isn’t hostile, but his tone and body language are far from welcoming. 

“Sorry,” Dean says, voice coming out in barely more than a squeak. He clears his tight throat and tries again. “Sorry. I got myself lost. Thought this was my cabin.”

“Indeed.” The British man, blonde-haired and classically handsome, eyes him from head to toe. “Which berth are you in?”

“I’m -” Dean falters, suddenly finding himself unable to think of a number, any number at all, and he’s sure the pause says everything. “Twenty. I’m in twenty.”

“I see.” The man’s face is impassive. “Twenty.”

“Yes.” Struck with an overwhelming sensation that he’s said the wrong thing, Dean can do nothing but wait.

“That’s cabin twenty?”

“Yes…”

“Or berth twenty?” The man barely gives him a second to respond, and it’s at that moment that Dean realizes he’s fucked up. And that everyone in the room knows it. Still, he makes a last attempt to save himself.

“Berth twenty. I’m in berth twenty. Sorry, it’s very hot down here and I got myself kinda lost…”

“Ah, sure. So you’re bunked up with Tommy, is that right? He’s in nineteen.”

Shit. Another curveball. The blonde man’s expression hasn’t changed at all, and even his two companions have turned to look at him, evidently unable to tell whether or not he’s being genuine or trying to hoodwink Dean into putting his foot in it - again. 

“Tommy. Yeah, yeah, I’m with Tommy. Great guy, real… mellow.” Mellow? Where did that come from?

“Bullshit.” It’s said with such cool serenity that Dean doesn’t catch it right away. The man lounges back against his bunk, regarding Dean with an almost careless judgement. “Tommy is in twenty, and he’s the least mellow person you’ll ever meet. I know all the fellows in that cabin. You’re not one of them. So, do you want to try that again? Or just stop with the nonsense and tell us exactly who you are and why you’ve stumbled into our cabin looking like you’re being pursued by the devil? Because,” he gestures to the door that Dean has just come through uninvited. “If there are seven different kinds of hellhound out there, I’d quite like to know about it.” He leans forward again, clasps his hands, looking interested. “So, brother. Which is it to be?”

“I…” Dean lifts a hand to tug on his collar. “Okay, look. You caught me. I’m not in twenty. I don’t even know where twenty is. I’m…”  _ Think, Winchester. _ For some reason, he doesn’t want to burst out with ‘actually, I’m from First Class and just thought I’d check out the facilities in steerage to make myself feel better about being trapped on this floating steel prison and see if anyone wanted to drink themselves unconscious with me’. That might not go down too well. “Stowaway.” He plucks the word from thin air but it works, and he repeats it with more resolve. “Yeah. I got on at Cherbourg and got lucky so far. Thought I’d explore a little and got myself kinda lost. You know how it is.” 

He goes for a jovial shrug and a ‘what can you do’ expression, and for a moment silence reigns between the four men. The blonde, the only one who has spoken so far, scrutinizes him and for a wild second Dean suddenly thinks he’s going to throw something at him. Then, the handsome face breaks into a smile. A demure one, but a smile nonetheless. 

“Well, you’ve come to the right place. I’m sure we can look after you a while. Castiel wants to finish whatever he’s doing down there,” he gestures at his friend who is kneeling on the floor, elbow resting on the battered trunk, and has hardly looked at Dean since he entered, so intent on the small bottles and tied string bags in front of him. For the first time, Dean notices the overwhelming scent of lavender in the room. “And I have a pre-dinner drink to finish. I’m Balthazar, by the way.” He extends a hand and Dean has to reach awkwardly over his companion’s head to shake it. “This is Castiel, and up there is Gabriel. Don’t disturb him while he’s praying, he gets awfully irate.”

“Don’t interrupt me when I’m talking with God.” Comes a crisp voice and Dean’s eyebrows attempt to disappear into his hairline.

“Talking with? He’s responding, is He? Please, fill us in on the conversation later. In the meantime,” Balthazar turns back to Dean. “Tell us your name, friend. And pull up a seat… well, a space on the floor. Castiel, move over, for God’s sake.”

The man on the floor hurries to move his books and knapsack to one side, turning as he does to look up at Dean properly for the first time and Dean freezes where he stands, struck by the sight of him. Dark, windswept hair. Piercing blue eyes. A cigarette held between two fingers. The silent offer to join him, an offer which Dean had wanted so badly to accept. Railings and decking and much more than that separating them. 

Castiel frowns up at him, recognition not yet showing on his face, and Dean manages to look away and kneel down on the floor at his side. Closer now, Castiel smells of tobacco and spices and something earthy and calming. Dean feels his anxiety abate just by being close to him. The man radiates healing energy and peace, and Dean wants to press closer.

“So, who are you all?” He looks around the tiny room. “He’s a priest,” A grunt of confirmation comes from above. “And you?”

Balthazar looks critically at him and then smiles. “I read.”

“You read? For a living?”

“Partially. I sometimes pass my knowledge on to others in schools. But mostly I just read,” Balthazar holds up a bottle. “And imbibe. It’s a pleasant existence.”

“A priest, a scholar, and a... well, whatever you call yourself.” Dean gestures good-naturedly to Castiel who smiles politely in response. “Damn. You’re already more interesting than the stuck-up sons of bitches I’ve been trapped with so far...”

He trails off, realizing what he’s said, as the faces of the men change before him. Castiel’s snaps in recognition and he points at Dean, evidently finally struck by the memory of seeing him on the promenade deck. 

“That’s why you look so familiar! I remember you. What...” he frowns, looking over Dean’s attire in apparent confusion. “How did you get into the First Class lounge? I’m sure I saw you there.”

“Is there a way in?” Balthazar leans forward with interest, elbows resting on his knees. “I, for one, would love to see how our superiors are enjoying their journey.”

“They aren’t our superiors,” Castiel says disapprovingly. “Not unless you allow them to be.”

“No man is superior to another in the eyes of the Lord,” comes Gabriel’s sing-song voice from above them. Dean can’t tell if he’s serious or not. “He created us all equal, in his image.”

“Oh, please.” Balthazar rolls his eyes in his general direction. “I’ve heard enough about the Lord over the last two days to last me the rest of my life. Just ask him to make sure he gets us to New York safely, next time you speak with him.” He takes a swig from the anonymous brown bottle in his hand and pins Gabriel with a fierce glare. 

“It doesn’t work that way,” Gabriel snipes and Dean has to suppress a smile. He’s missed this. This easy camaraderie that close friends share, the type that seems to be forbidden among the people he now socializes with. Any attempts he’s made at a joke or light-hearted jibe have been met with frosty silence or, worse, the person just turns away entirely. 

Again, Balthazar rolls his eyes and waves a dismissive hand towards Gabriel. “Ignore him, Dean. Now, what were we saying?”

“I, uh,” Dean flounders, suddenly gripped with panic about what to say. Does he admit who he really is, where he came from? Stick to the stowaway story? Something else?

“Here.” Before he can settle on a decision, Castiel interrupts his wayward train of thought and holds out a small bottle towards him, white ceramic with no label. “Drink this. It will help.”

_ Help with what? _ Dean wonders and his confusion must be evident on his face because Castiel hastens to clarify in as few words as possible. 

“You look pale.”

“Oh. Thanks.” He reaches for the bottle but Gabriel sits up abruptly and snaps his fingers for attention. 

“Don’t accept anything he gives you. It’s all hocus pocus and nonsense, it won’t help a bit.”

“For once, our esteemed friend is right.” Balthazar is lounging back on his elbows now, feet crossed at the ankles, and he’s holding a brown bottle in one hand which he must have procured from somewhere when Dean wasn’t looking. “Castiel is known for his little experiments going awry.” He takes a long swig from the bottle, then holds it out to Dean. “You need the proper stuff.”

“My experiments do not go  _ awry! _ ” Castiel looks affronted. “The results are mostly what I anticipate.”

“Precisely. ‘Mostly.’ Trust me, Dean, don’t touch anything he gives you, or else you risk turning up in New York with your pants on your head and hair growing in unspeakable places.” 

Balthazar smirks at his own wit and Dean returns it, accepting the bottle and taking a cautious sip. It burns going down and it’s so strong he can barely tell what it’s supposed to be, cheap vodka perhaps, but it’s perfect and he takes another drink before handing it back to a laughing Balthazar. 

The bottle is passed back and forth for a good half hour between the pair of them, Castiel wrinkling his nose at each offer but accepting occasionally, and Gabriel occasionally grumbling about how noisy they’re all becoming. Dean, for the first time since setting foot on the ship, manages to relax. He takes off his cap and leans back against the wall, forearms resting on his bent knees, and he laughs. He laughs in a way he thought he had forgotten how to. In a way that had been crushed out of him over the months, and it feels good to set it free again. Like he’s a wilted flower now blossoming in the spring sunshine.

Eventually, a raucous noise from outside rouses Balthazar and he stands up, swaying just a little.

“Come on, or we’ll miss dinner entirely. Dean, come with us?” He holds out a hand and hauls first Dean, then Castiel to his feet then turns away to Gabriel. Dean ends up standing very close to Castiel, so close he can feel his body heat, and he finds blue eyes fixed firmly on his. Castiel stares a lot, a fact that Dean has certainly noticed. Not in a threatening way, more… curious. Inquisitive. 

And - and it must be due to the alcohol, has to be - Dean finds himself thinking,  _ I’ll let you know anything you want about me. All you have to do is ask. _

“C’mon,” Balthazar slings an arm around Dean’s shoulders and someone pulls the door open. “Let’s go to a real party.”


End file.
